I Wish
by Crunch
Summary: "He did what he had to do, Spot told himself as the boy with the knife in his gut doubled over and slid to the cobblestones. He did what he had to to survive." R/R :)


I wish- by Crunch  
  
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED: This is uber -angsty, at least in the beginning. But what can I say, I was hungering for some non-slash Jack and Spot repartee, and this is what popped out.  
  
Disclaimer: Thought I'd add one for once. I don't own anything. I can't think of a funny way to say that right now.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
All I ever wanted is to be a better man  
  
And I try to keep make a life the only way I can  
  
~*~  
  
Spot Conlon wiped one hand, crusted with crimson and soaked through with the stench of blood and sweat, against the grimy fibers of his corduroys. It was a damn useless gesture- the blood had saturated his skin by now, penetrating every pore until it had soaked strait through to the bone. It would take at least a week of scrubbing to get it all off this time, and his clothing? Forget about that; blood stuck to clothing like fly paper, and this was his last shirt. But he'd just have to worry about personal hygiene later, as the bruit in front of him was climbing agonizingly but determinedly to his feet, balling his own fists as his eyes crackled and blazed like smoldering coals.  
  
"You're gonna die fah dat, Conlon. " Spot tilted his head and forced himself to stand proudly, despite the thundering ache in his ribs and the pounding in his heart that threatened to drown out his enemy's taunts. After all these years, the death threats still shocked the breath from his lungs. In the beginning they'd frozen him cold, but they'd gotten easier to swallow with practice. Now a days he hardly even flinched.  
  
"I don't t'ink you're strong enough to have said dat, Sweeney." He forced a smirk and braced his aching body while Sweeney lowered his head with a bellow and charged like a bull in heat.  
  
As the lumbering foe struck Spot, it also struck Spot that this was his birthday. Fifteen years young. Too young to be fighting like an animal, his mother would've said. But his mother wasn't here.  
  
"What'sa mattah, Conlon?" Spot snapped back to reality as a fist snapped across his jaw, rattling his teeth as he tasted blood like a copper penny. "Is dis how you fight?"  
  
"Nah, Sweeney." He dodged another swing and spit away a loose tooth, reaching for the chilly metal in his pocket with experienced, trembling fingers. "This is how I fight."  
  
He cringed in the tidal wave of guilt that twisted his heart as surely as the blade twisted in Sweeney's side, but he batted it aside in the next instant. He did what he had to do, Spot told himself as the boy with the knife in his gut doubled over and slid to the cobblestones, mouth contorting and fists seizing in agony. He did what he had to to survive, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less. He just did what he had to.  
  
'I'se sorry, Sweeney', Spot almost gasped.  
  
"I don't wanna be seein' you aroun' Brooklyn, Sweeney. Bad stuff goes down in Brooklyn." His voice came out hoary and splintered as he patted Sweeney's clammy cheek and stepped around his body, hurrying away from the sobs as fast as his bruised body would carry him.  
  
'Happy Birthday, me.' He limped from the docks, sighing a jagged breath of relief as the agonized bawling slowly faded into the hush of the night.  
  
~*~  
  
For me to save the world I don't understand  
  
How did I become the leader of a billion men?  
  
~*~  
  
Spot pushed his way through the crowds of beaming newsies awaiting his entrance to the lodging house. Somehow he managed to drag his tired carcass up the steps amidst the flurry of handshakes and congratulations.  
  
"Ey, Spot- guess you showed dat ol' bum Sweeney who's boss, eh?"  
  
"'Atta boy, Spot!"  
  
"Yeah, Sweeney won't be messin' wid Brooklyn any time soon, will 'e, Spot?"  
  
Spot smiled the smile renowned throughout all of Brooklyn- the smile of a living God. "Was dere ever any doubt?" He cast an a glance towards his bunk in the far corner of the room, anxious to reach the solace of his bed before his smile crumbled to ashes along with the rest of him. His retreat was halted by a shout from behind.  
  
"Ey, Spot, it appeahs you have a gentlemen caller." One newsie, either brave enough or foolish enough to joke with him, called from his perch near the bunkroom doorway.  
  
~*~  
  
You all look at me and say, boy you've been blessed  
  
But y'all don't see the insides of my unhappiness  
  
~*~  
  
Spot's newsie underlings crowded round, pushing and shoving and climbing bunks for a choice spot. A meeting between the two infamous leaders of New York was worth seeing- it was usually better entertainment then the weekly shows at Medda's.  
  
"How's it rollin', Spotty?" No one else present would use the term 'spotty' if they valued their lives, but this was different. This was a business practice. It was tradition. Jack smirked and held out a strong, marble- filled hand. Spot glanced his ally up and down before returning the smirk.  
  
"Nevah better, Jacky-boy. Is dose shooters fah me, or are dey just fah decoration?"  
  
"Nah, they're fah you, Spotty." he handed over the marbles, which Spot pocketed before motioning towards the fire escape.  
  
"Care ta step into me office, Jacky-boy?"  
  
"Why, I'd be delighted, Spotty." Again Spot smirked, and the two borough leaders turned towards the window as the crowds of newsies parted before them like the Red Seas.  
  
As soon as Spot stepped into the arctic chill of the January night air, he slumped across the railing like a winded carthorse. "It's good ta see ya, Jack." The head of Manhattan nodded and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, tapping the stick thoughtfully against his fist.  
  
"Good ta see youse, Spot. Now what's da matter?"  
  
Spot shrugged and took in the view from the fire escape, which would have been of a lovely, twinkling city skyline, had it not been blocked by the towering brick wall in front of them. "Rememba Sweeney?"  
  
"Sure, da kid you grew up wid. Moved over to Queens, didn't he?"  
  
The boy nodded. "Yup. I stabbed him tonight."  
  
"Was he armed?"  
  
"Yeah. I saw da gun in 'is belt. He wasn't goin' for it or nothin', but it was there."  
  
Jack shoved the cigarette in his mouth before patting Spot across the back with his free hand. "He would a gone for it. You did what you had ta."  
  
It was Spots turn to nod. "Probably. I jus' wish. . ."  
  
"I know, Spot. Gawd, I know." Jack took a reflective puff and watched the smoke curl from his lips like a ghostly snake, before joining the Brooklyn leader at the railing. "They'll nevah know." He jerked a thumb towards the bunkroom, where carefree laughter and the thumps and bumps of the nightly roughhousing seeped through the smudged windowpane. "But I know. We're da leaders, Spot. We do what we gotta, and dat's dat. It aint no good wishing."  
  
He patted Spot on the back once more before straightening out, stretching his arms and crushing the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. "I bettah get back to Manhattan. Gotta tuck da boys into bed, ya know?" The two shared a chuckle and Jack started down the fire escape.  
  
"Ey, Jack? Why'd ya come all da way ta Brooklyn tanight?"  
  
Jack smiled his equally God-like smile and his cowboy hat. "Why, I came ta wish you happy Birthday, Spot. You didn't think I'd fahget, did ya?"  
  
Spot grinned, glad for the dim lighting that hid the tears sparkling in his eyes. "Nah, not you, Cowboy. Thanks a lot."  
  
"Yeah, well, don't say I nevah cared." With a wink and another tip of his hat, Jack sauntered off into the night, leaving Spot staring at that brick wall ahead of him, pretending he saw stars.  
  
~*~  
  
Instead of y'all throwing them stones at me  
  
Somebody pray for me.  
  
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Eh, angstyness thy name is Crunch. Oh yes, lyrics belong to R Kelley, though I might have taken some liberties, editing out the "homies" and " 'hoods" and all. So, whatdya think? Like it, love it, hate it, review it. That's all, folks! 


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